


The Wicked Lies We Tell

by rabidchild67



Series: Empathia [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe, Bonding, Fantasy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 23:27:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter can't live without Neal. </p><p>An Empathia Universe Story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wicked Lies We Tell

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of a series begun by another writer, the super-talented Winterstar/DMK0064. She invited other writers to explore a slash relationship in that ‘verse, and being a huge fan of her stories, I jumped at the chance. I only hope I’ve done her creation justice.
> 
>  
> 
> [Link to Master Post for the Empathia series](http://dmk0064.livejournal.com/57705.html)
> 
>  
> 
> It is useful to have read the other stories, but for the purposes of this one, Neal possesses the powers of an “Empathia,” a supernatural entity within him that allows him to heal others’ physical injuries. This is a special talent, has gotten his sentence commuted, but is not without complications – “Empathia” are feared and reviled in society, much the way ex-conmen are. This story takes place in an AU where Season 3 never happens.
> 
> Title is a lyric from the song "The Space Between" by Dave Matthews Band,

Neal entered the conference room on Peter’s heels, glanced around the packed room and found a place along the back wall next to Schulte the new probie. The room was abuzz with speculation – an all-hands meeting had been called unexpectedly and all casework was to be put on hold, but no one seemed to know why.

The room quieted as Hughes entered, another agent accompanying him that Neal didn’t recognize. “Settle down,” Hughes muttered, taking a position at the front of the room and waiting for everyone’s full attention. Neal noticed a look of recognition pass between Peter and the newcomer and carefully kept his expression neutral when Peter glanced his way.

“I’ll get right down to it,” Hughes said without preamble. “The reason you’ve all been called together is that our division has been requested to assist with the security surrounding the upcoming G-20 Summit in New York.” He paused for a reaction, which of course he got. Most of the younger agents made excited noises, and Neal was himself intrigued by what it might mean.

“I’d like to introduce you all to Special Agent Philip Kramer, who has been named to the task force with the Secret Service and other agencies. He’ll be managing the Bureau’s resources and you’ll be getting your assignments from him.”

 _Special Agent Kramer – Peter’s mentor,_ Neal thought, and glanced over at his partner. Peter had an inscrutable expression on his face, but Neal knew him better than anyone, and could tell he was secretly pleased to see his old friend. Neal measured up the man in question, who had begun to discuss the particulars of the project at hand to the assembled agents.

When the meeting was concluded, Peter called Neal over to be introduced. “Neal, I’d like to introduce you to an old friend. Philip Kramer, please meet Neal Caffrey.”

“Agent Kramer, your reputation precedes you,” Neal said, standing with his hands clasped behind his back. 

“As does yours, Mr. Caffrey.” Kramer held out a hand to Neal, who eyed it with surprise before shaking it; most people avoided touching him, as too much contact with an Empathia was supposed to be harmful. The fact that Kramer clearly didn’t care about the risks raised him a few notches in Neal's esteem. Still, Neal kept the contact brief out of respect for the elder agent.

“An interesting assignment for the head of the DC Art Crimes unit,” Neal said.

Kramer shrugged. “The Director commented on my attention to detail when assigning me.”

“Yeah, that and the fact you can actually put up with those Secret Service assholes,” Peter laughed. 

Kramer joined in, and Neal smiled as the two men enjoyed each other’s company and the private jokes he neither got nor cared to; Kramer was a part of Peter’s past, and Neal was secure in his role in Peter’s future. As the two friends reminisced, Neal excused himself, but Kramer stopped him with a hand on his sleeve. “A word, if you please, Neal.”

Neal raised his eyebrows in anticipation.

“I wanted to be sure to speak with you about your role in the upcoming operation. We’ll have need of your _special talents_ when the time comes.”

“Oh? I suppose if you need someone to pick the German’s Chancellor’s pocket, I could be your guy, but I am reformed these days.”

“I was referring to your _other_ talents.”

Neal could feel a flicker of annoyance cross his features before he could control it. To be exploited because of his Empathia was a new thing to him, and still rankled. “Of course.”

“With that many world leaders in one place, not to mention the protestors and nutjobs that generally accompany these conference, the Secret Service likes to be prepared.”

“I thought the President had a personal Empathia on staff,” Peter said.

“He does, and so do most of the meeting’s attendees. It’s just as an added precaution, nothing to be too concerned about.”

“Of course not,” Neal said, plastering on a smile. “Just let me know where and when.” He took his leave of them and found his way back to his desk.

xXxXxXxXxXx

At the end of the day, Peter caught up to Neal as the former conman stood at the elevators, preparing to leave. “On your way?” he asked, making conversation. He had noted Neal's dark mood all afternoon and didn’t have to guess at its cause.

“Unless the President needs me,” Neal snarked, his smile not reaching his eyes. 

“I’m heading uptown, want a ride?” Peter said.

“Think I’ll walk, but thanks.”

Peter shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

They and two others got onto the already half-full elevator and rode down in relative silence. All the other people got off the elevator except them, and they eyed each other until the door closed. Peter only managed a raised eyebrow before Neal was in his arms, his lips sliding over Peter’s urgently, intense, passionate. He stepped forward, guiding Neal against the wall and stopped the elevator between parking levels 2 and 3.

“I thought you were walking?” he said when he came up for air.

“Had to keep up appearances, didn’t I?” Neal pointed out, kissing him again. “Can’t have anyone thinking we’re an item, can we?”

“Goodness me, no,” Peter said, angling his head to the side so that Neal could suckle at the space just beneath his ear. Neal's hot breath on that spot made him weak in the knees. 

Just about everything about Neal made him weak in the knees lately. Their partnership had eased into friendship so gradually, he shouldn’t have been surprised when it had, in time, blossomed into love. He fully admitted he hadn’t seen it happening, not until Elizabeth mentioned that his protectiveness of Neal had its origins in feelings beyond friendship, and suggested that they pursue a relationship. And when he’d finally admitted it to Neal, intending to feel him out about it, Neal had smiled.

_”Oh. Yeah, OK. That makes sense now,” he had said._

_“What? What makes sense?”_

_Neal merely slid over on the couch in his apartment, slid his hand around Peter’s neck, and kissed him. “What my heart was telling me,” he said with a small smile._

That was a short three months ago, but Peter already couldn’t imagine his life without Neal in it. “We should get going before I embarrass myself,” Peter breathed, reluctantly pulling away from Neal and hoping his suit jacket hid his raging hard-on. He noticed a flicker of disquiet cross the younger man’s face. “What is it?” He hit the button to start the elevator up again, but stayed in Neal's personal space, leaning in toward him. 

“Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing – you’ve been moody all afternoon.”

“Well, what Kramer said earlier – or perhaps ‘assumed’ is a more apropos word – it really burned my cheese.”

Peter sighed as the elevator arrived on Parking Level 3. “I know, babe. I guess it’s your new reality though, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” Neal responded glumly, walking slowly out of the elevator. “Just feels more like exploitation than a vocation most of the time.”

They’d been down this conversational road many times in the past, and Peter sympathized, but he had nothing constructive to add other than his assurances that Neal was truly appreciated. He rested his hand at the small of Neal's back as they made their way towards the Taurus and felt the younger man relax at his touch. 

\----

The G-20 Summit began two weeks later, and the days leading up to it were busier than Peter would have thought possible. The seemingly endless drills and background checks that had to be scheduled and analyzed made personal interaction nearly impossible, and Peter found himself missing the attentions of both his wife and his lover acutely. But at least he had Neal with him – or at least in his sight – every day.

The morning of the Summit dawned clear and crisp, a spectacular late October day. Peter glanced up from pouring himself a cup of coffee as Neal arrived for the day, earlier than nearly anyone else, a garment bag slung over his shoulder. “Going somewhere?”

Neal shrugged. “Last minute change in plans – they want the Empathia to stay in the same hotel as the delegates, even if we’re local. Upside is I get to stay in a suite at the Ritz Carlton.”

“And the downside?”

“I’ll be a virtual prisoner. Security’s as tight as a mosquito’s bunghole.”

“Colorful imagery.”

“Colorful times. How old is that coffee?”

By 9:00, the office was empty, and Peter was swept up in the whirlwind of activity that surrounded the event. At 2:00, he finally got a chance to take a breather, and sat in a staging area with a cup of coffee clutched between his hands. 

“Doing all right, Boss?” Diana asked, looking pointedly at his hands. 

Peter looked down and saw that his hands were shaking. “I feel fine – maybe just a little shaky. I haven’t eaten anything since dinner last night.”

Diana went off and found him a sandwich and he spent the rest of the day in a meeting with Hughes, Kramer and all the department heads that were supporting the Summit.

Peter woke early the next morning with a splitting headache and an ache in his muscles that made him groan when he sat up in bed.

“Something wrong, hon?” El asked, rising with him.

He stretched, but it did little to alleviate the ache. “Guess I overdid it yesterday. I hurt all over.”

“Are you coming down with something?” El put a hand to his forehead and frowned. “You don’t feel like you have a temperature. “

“Good, because now is not the time to get the flu.” He groaned once more and dragged himself to the shower. 

By lunchtime, Peter felt a little better if more tired than usual, but when he got home late that night, he fell asleep on top of the covers without even changing out of his clothes.

xXxXxXxXxXx

Neal was bored.

Sure, four years in prison taught him new appreciation for that word, but sitting on-call as an Empathia to world leaders came in at a close second. He occupied himself the first day by sketching portraits of the meetings and people he’d seen until the Secret Service confiscated his papers in the interest of national security.

Now he spent his time observing the staffers among the various delegations, sussing out their tells, listening in when conversations floated his way, learning secrets, not missing anything. On the third day, he was standing alone at yet another cocktail reception, apart from the others, when he heard a step behind him. 

“Not joining the party, Neal?” It was Kramer.

Neal turned his head. “Not feeling sociable at the moment.”

“I would think these types of gatherings would be right up your alley,” Kramer observed with a rheumy chuckle. “An enterprising social engineer such as you would be able to get into all kinds of things.”

Neal made a face but then covered with a winning smile. “Who’s to say I haven’t already?”

“What do you mean?”

“Things have a way of coming to the surface at gatherings like this. I observe, I absorb, I process.”

“And have you processed anything of value?”

Neal sipped at the vodka rocks he had been nursing and then pointed at a young woman across the room. “She is with the French delegation, but is secretly having an affair with that man over there, who heads up their security detail. It’s only interesting because she is also screwing the Italian foreign minister on the side.” He sipped again and turned, indicated a pair of middle-aged men chatting with a woman about their age. “The men are with the German delegation, the woman is Brazilian. They’re looking for a fourth for golf tomorrow.” He turned again and pointed at a young woman with his chin. “And she is the British Prime Minister’s personal Empathia. She’s very new, on the job less than a month, and they really need to review their security processes.”

“Why do you say that?” 

“She’s already cloned the man’s cell phone and has been sending tidbits to a tabloid journalist back home. The Prime Minister can expect a few surprising stories to break as soon as this is all over.”

Kramer’s eyes widened and he rushed off to have a word with the head of British security. Neal watched him go with a neutral expression on his face. 

He was still bored.

xXxXxXxXxXx

Peter sat at his station in the Command and Control Center, trying to concentrate on the reports he was reviewing. Though the conference was wrapping up that afternoon, it didn’t seem to have added up to any lessening of the workload, and he had a lot more reports piling up than he would have liked. His lack of productivity was certainly not helped by the flu he had been fighting for days, the symptoms of which simply refused to lessen regardless of the remedies he tried – OTC or otherwise. To compound matters, he had since that morning been feeling a low-level anxiety he couldn’t put a name to.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up and behind him – Diana stood there holding out a cup of tea, which he accepted gratefully. “Thanks, Di.”

“No problem – I know how it goes. I had that stomach thing during the Mancini trial last month.”

Peter flinched – she had looked like death warmed over at the time. “I hope I don’t look that bad,” he said ruefully.

Diana shrugged noncommittally, but she had a twinkle in her eye that told him he probably did. “You should take a couple days to recuperate after this – the old man won’t mind.”

“I hate to admit it, but I think I’ll take that advice.” He ran a hand across his forehead. “I’ve never felt like this in my life.”

“Well, this too shall pass, boss. I’ll see you later.”

Peter watched her go and returned to his work, but got no farther as his vision was beginning to blur as he looked at the computer monitor in front of him. He sighed and sat back in his chair, trying to ease the ache in his shoulders and back. He closed his eyes and felt the room tilt as he lost his orientation. Opening them again, everything righted itself, but the vertigo he’d just experienced was a new symptom. He rose from his station and headed for the men’s room, intending to splash some cold water on his face, and barely made it without passing out. He stood leaning on the sinks heavily, staring at himself – and realized he looked as bad as he’d feared; his face was drawn, pale, and his eyes seemed to have sunken into his skull, making him think of a Jack-o-lantern. He turned the water on and shoveled handfuls of it into his mouth, then wet a paper towel and used it to mop his face. 

He was about to finally admit to himself that he should think about heading home when he heard a familiar voice coming from outside the men’s room.

“Hey, Diana, Peter around?”

It was Neal, and it was probably the beginnings of self-pity at how ill he was feeling, but suddenly Peter wanted to weep with relief that his lover had shown up. It was silly, really, a man his age so desperate to be coddled by someone, but he was alone in the room and he didn’t think he gained anything by lying to himself. He grabbed a stack of dry towels to dry his face, made a half-hearted attempt at straightening out his hair and his tie and headed for the door.

“There he is,” Neal said with a smile when Peter emerged.

“Hey, buddy,” Peter said, his voice a little shaky.

“You OK? You don’t look so hot.” Neal raised a hand as if to touch Peter, but forced himself to put it back down, mindful of the room full of FBI and Secret Service personnel behind them.

“I don’t feel so hot. Been fighting this flu.”

“Want me to drive you home?” Neal's voice was low as he took a step toward Peter, his blue eyes widened in concern.

“Maybe, in about an hour? I’ve got some stuff I ought to finish up.”

Neal nodded and followed Peter back to his station, taking a seat at the now-vacant desk next to his. Peter was certain it was all in his imagination, but it seemed like the fog in his brain was beginning to lift now that Neal was there. Before long, he was able to come to a point in his work where he could feel less guilty for calling out for the afternoon, and looked up at Neal, who was staring at him. “What?”

Neal gave him the smile he knew was reserved only for him, and lowered his lashes. “Nothing. I – well, I missed you,” he said, his voice a low murmur. 

Peter couldn’t help but smile back. “Me too.”

“You ready to go? I should get you home to El.”

“She’s got an event tonight.”

“Even better – now I can have you to myself. Prepare to be coddled to death.” Neal stood and held out his hand for Peter’s keys.

“I can’t wait,” Peter replied, his mood brightening immediately.

\----

It was a month later when Peter got a call from Kramer, requesting Neal's assistance on a case. “He’s not some trained dog to be trotted out for special occasions, Phil.” He couldn’t help but bristle; he knew well Kramer’s attitude about subordinates – they were little more than a tool in his belt.

“That’s hardly fair, Petey. Honestly, Neal impressed me when I worked with him at the Conference. Do you know he single-handedly uncovered a serious breach in the UK contingent’s security?”

Peter didn’t know because Neal hadn’t mentioned it, and he couldn’t suppress a stab of pride as Kramer related the information. “Fine, fine. Maybe you can borrow him - what’s the case?”

It was a doozey – and right up Neal's alley. A rash of very good counterfeit paintings had been showing up in DC galleries; all were reproductions of works known to have been stolen from other parts of the country. There was no discernible pattern – the works were by a wide variety of artists, and even where they were stolen shed no light – which made it all the more frustrating for the FBI. 

Peter had to grudgingly admit it was a case where Neal's talents would certainly come in handy. “But I don’t know if I can spare him for long.”

“A week. If I can have him here for a week, I’m sure his input will prove invaluable.” 

Peter had to reluctantly agree to the temporary reassignment, subject to Neal's agreement. As a consultant, it wasn’t as if Peter could order him to participate, but, “It would be good politics if you did,” Peter explained to him later at lunch.

A brief expression of distaste flashed across Neal's face that Peter did not miss; he could tell Neal didn’t like Kramer, even if he’d never said anything to him. “You say the case is juicy?” Neal prodded.

“Kramer’ll email you a synopsis if you agree. Come on, a week in DC – what’s not to love?”

“A week working with a bunch of narrow minded pricks who will keep checking for their wallets every time I walk by? Color me excited. How much art are we talking?”

“Kramer thinks it could be millions. A Dali showed up only last week, for example.”

Neal's left eyebrow reached for his hairline. “OK. But only as a favor to you.”

Peter smirked. “And not at all because you’ll be able to get your hands dirty with a nice art forgery?” Cases of this magnitude came about only every ten years or so, and Peter knew it would pique Neal's interest.

“Yeah. OK. Whatever,” Neal said, failing miserably not to appear excited.

Neal was on a train to Union Station Monday morning. By the middle of the next day, Peter noticed a tremor in his hands that abated if he concentrated and that he chalked up to low blood sugar. On Friday, a folder whacking him on the shoulder shook him out of a fugue as he sat in Hughes’ weekly staff meeting. 

“Earth to Burke,” Ruiz muttered under his breath and Peter realized with a start that it was his turn to present. 

Later that night, he sat on the edge of his side of the bed, and if Elizabeth hadn’t slipped her arms around his torso from behind, he realized he’d be sitting staring at the shoe he held in his right hand for who knew how much longer.

“Something wrong, hon? You’ve been quiet all week.”

He shook his head to clear it and smiled back at her, leaning over to kiss her. “Good. I’m good. I guess I’m just… tired lately. Been spacing out, feeling run-down.”

El frowned. “Huh… couldn’t be that flu you had last month – maybe we should make an appointment with Dr. Rand. You’re about due for your annual physical anyway, right?”

He smiled as she began to massage the muscles at the back of his neck for him, arching into her touch and moaning like Satchmo when someone scratched around his tail. “That’s probably not a bad idea,” he agreed and let her ease him back onto their bed.

The next day, he woke early with a splitting migraine and a low-grade sense of anxiety; he took so many Advil his stomach ached, but nothing would ease the throbbing in his head. At least it was Saturday and, even as El was leaving to see to a client’s wedding in Manhattan, he was relieved to be able to be alone.

He drew the blinds and the curtains shut and burrowed into the bed, the duvet and pillows pulled over his head. He wasn’t sure how long he lay there – hoping and praying for sleep that stubbornly refused to come. Any movement was agony, and the few times he got up to use the bathroom or to get a glass of water, he felt like he might pass out from the dizziness that assailed him almost as soon as he was upright.

He found his thoughts straying more often to Neal’s absence that week. Perhaps more importantly, he found he missed his lover more acutely than he would have thought, more than when Elizabeth went on business trips. Perhaps it was because their romance was so new, but he was still at a bit of a loss as to why. Logically, he knew Neal would return soon enough, but his impatience about it, and something he could only give the name “angst” to were new to him and, he knew, out of character. He tossed and turned, trying to put such thoughts out of his head as well as to find a comfortable position to lie in.

 

The slight depression of the bed as someone sat on it behind him was Peter’s first clue that he’d fallen asleep. He stirred when he felt a hand rest on his shoulder. 

“Hey, it’s me,” Neal said, his voice pitched low. “El said you had a migraine and that I ought to come and check in on you.”

The sound of Neal's voice was like a balm to his frazzled nerves. Peter fumbled to push the covers down and Neal assisted. “You’re home,” he said, blinking up at Neal.

Neal smiled kindly. “Well, yeah – you knew I’d only be gone a week.”

“And you’re here.” Peter felt relief spreading in his gut, soothing the pain and, yes, fear that had lodged there. The feeling was so sudden, the relief so complete, that it almost felt euphoric – it was the only word he had for it. He reached out for Neal, and when he took Peter’s hand, a similar feeling spread from that point of contact, up Peter’s outstretched arm and into his chest, energizing him. He sat up suddenly, and reached for Neal. “I’m so happy to see you.” 

Happy. Yes, happiness was exactly what he was feeling. _Pure happiness._

“Me too,” Neal said with a slight laugh, leaning forward to meet Peter.

“You smell so good,” Peter said, burying his face in Neal's neck, and he did – like home, and love, and comfort, and joy. Peter pulled him closer and kissed his throat, worked his way along Neal's jaw until he reached his ear, which he began to suck.

Neal squirmed away, his hands on Peter’s sides. “Hey, come on, plenty of time for that later. You’re sick.”

“I feel better, actually. I guess that nap really helped.” 

The sudden clarity in his mind was astounding – almost dizzying, but not in the vertiginous and sickly way his migraine had affected him. He felt light, giddy. He moved his head to kiss Neal on the mouth; Neal’s lips parted for him and his tongue was soon brushing against Peter’s, against his teeth. Neal moaned softly, a sound that sent a white-hot stab of desire to pool somewhere south of Peter’s gut. 

He let his hand trail down Neal's chest to rest on his belt, and he tugged at the buckle suggestively. “Come on, I really missed you.”

Neal rested his hand atop Peter’s and nonticed his erection, which was currently tenting his pajama pants. “Well, OK, but not like this. Not here. I’m not gonna – not in El’s bed. It’s not – it’s not right.”

“You know we have her blessing.”

Neal shook his head. “Your wife being OK with our relationship and us making love in the bed you both share are two separate things, Peter. You know I can’t.” Neal shook his head a little, giving Peter an odd look.

Ignoring him, Peter swung his legs out of the bed and stood, grabbing Neal's hand. “We’ve got two guest rooms,” he said, and pulled Neal to his feet.

They weren’t two feet out of the room before Peter stopped, turned and began kissing Neal until they were both breathless. He took steps backwards, leading them down the hall. 

Neal broke the kiss, pushed Peter away slightly with two hands on his chest. “Peter, what’s gotten into you? To hear El tell it, you were at death’s door only this morning.”

“I’m fine now. Never better.” And it was true. He found himself savoring the sudden absence of pain – it was almost intoxicating. He nudged the guest room door open with his hip and pulled Neal with him. Dropping to his knees, he quickly undid Neal's pants and took him into his mouth. “I’ve been waiting for this all week,” he murmured as he kissed his way up and down the shaft. 

“Me too. God, Peter, don’t stop!” Neal murmured, all reluctance melting away.

Peter sucked Neal for a few more minutes, then sat back on his heels and looked up at him. “Bed?”

They were both naked in seconds, grinding against each other on top of the guest room bed’s coverlet, when a sudden urge took him over and Peter found himself looking at Neal with lust-drunk eyes. “Neal, I want – I want you to fuck me,” he whispered against Neal's mouth.

“Uh, what?”

Now that he’d said it, he never wanted it more. “I want to feel you inside me. I need it.” 

“Have – have you ever done that before?”

Peter didn’t understand Neal's hesitation. He rolled onto his back and pulled Neal with him, kissing him as he spoke, reveling in the feel of his weight on top of him, the hardness of him pressed against his belly. “Does it matter? Can’t we switch things up?” 

“Of course, but… are you _sure_?”

As much as Peter loved making love to Neal, the thought of being on the receiving end, of possessing him fully in this way, was the most perfect thing he could think of. “I’ve never been so sure of anything,” he breathed, opening his legs and pulling Neal in closer, wrapping him up with his entire body and basking in the sensation of his smooth skin against his fevered flesh.

xXxXxXxXxXx

Neal lay horizontally across the guest room bed, Peter sprawled bonelessly beside him with his leg draped over him, sweat cooling on their bodies. Peter’s breathing had evened out considerably, and Neal knew he had fallen asleep. He pressed his lips against his head, and breathed in his scent, taking pleasure in it.

But the momentary buzz of post-coital satisfaction quickly faded as he began to process exactly what had happened this afternoon. Peter – usually so confident, assertive and, yes, toppy – seemed to have suddenly become something else: needy, pliant, clingy. 

What did it mean? What _could_ it mean?

He could flatter himself and say that it was because Peter had missed him so much. Neal certainly had missed Peter the entire week he was gone. But was there something more? Something insidious?

They said that those bonded with Empathia became addicted to them, but how that reliance manifested, _if it did_ , Neal never knew, nor could he even believe it. It was the stuff of old wives’ tales, legends handed down by the ignorant to foment prejudice and hatred. Wasn’t it?

His grandfather had died when he was very small, so he never knew how he and his grandmother had behaved when apart. Had it hurt him to be parted from her? Did he go through any kind of withdrawal? 

Peter certainly showed none of the classic signs of addiction Neal was familiar with – mood swings, irritability, anxiety, euphoria. Had they been together long enough for such a bond, if it existed, to even form?

Neal didn’t know, and he frankly didn’t want to think about it. He could research it – something inside him told him it’d be the responsible thing to do – but the selfish part of him didn’t really want to. He liked being with Peter, _he loved Peter_ , he needed him – would the Empathia inside him have to ruin that too?

xXxXxXxXxXx

“You’re what?” Peter wasn’t sure he could believe his ears.

“I’m forming a task force to hunt down these art forgers, and I’d like to invite Neal to take part,” Kramer was saying, his voice tinny as it projected from the speaker of Peter’s desk phone two weeks later.

Peter snatched the receiver out of its cradle. “What for?” Peter flinched, realizing how rude he sounded, but he really couldn’t help it.

“For his insights, his skills. That young man impressed more than just me when he was down here last month, Petey, and I honestly think he advanced our investigation by leaps and bounds. He’s talented – and you know how much I like talented.”

Peter cringed. He knew well how Kramer liked to gather talent around him – had seen it from the inside. The problem was that working for him could become almost like a prison sentence for some – Art Crimes, though well-respected, offered less opportunities for advancement than would have been thought by anyone on the outside, and Peter had realized that early on. And Phil Kramer, though a well-respected and learned agent, was more a consumer of young talent than a nurturer. He didn’t think Neal could resist the opportunity to work some interesting cases, but he knew he wouldn’t thrive there either. 

“He’s not on the anklet anymore, right? Not since his Empathia origins became known. I’d think he was free to make this decision.”

“You would be right,” Peter responded, hedging. He shook his head – why was he so opposed to this? It would surely be an opportunity for Neal, whose dedication to a future at the Bureau was never in doubt. 

“It would be for the good of the Bureau,” Phil was saying, Peter realized as his attention was drawn back to the conversation at hand. 

Peter rolled his eyes. “Fine, I’ll ask him.”

\----

“A task force? Me?”

“You’ve impressed a lot of people.”

“Well, they didn’t impress me. Kramer’s team is insular and not half as clever as they pretend.”

“Then you’ll just have to show them all up, won’t you?” Peter said, and couldn’t keep the pride from his voice despite not wanting to do without him. “Neal, come on, this could be a landmark investigation. You could make your bones with this.”

“I don’t need bones, I need to stay in New York.”

“That’s your answer, then?” Peter tried to keep his voice even.

“You sound like you want me to go.”

Peter was a better actor than he thought – he didn’t want Neal to go, not at all. “I want you to do what you want to do. A case like this looks good on an agent’s jacket.”

“I’m not an agent,” Neal pointed out, but Peter kept looking at him. “Are you telling me I have a chance to join the Bureau as a full-fledged agent?”

“You’d have to go through the Academy, but a recommendation from Phil Kramer can go a long way.”

“And he’s told you this?”

 _I told him that,_ Peter thought, but didn’t elaborate, merely giving Neal a raised eyebrow. 

“You sure you can do without me?” Neal asked, looking uneasy.

Peter was grateful the door was closed. He leaned across his desk, keeping his voice pitched so only Neal could hear him, and left the neediness he was feeling out of his tone. “I’ll miss you like hell, but this is a good opportunity, Neal.”

Neal stared into Peter’s eyes for fully a minute, nearly long enough to be unsettling. What he was looking for, Peter didn’t know, and when he spoke, he still didn’t seem very convinced. “I’ll do it, but only because it’s to finish what I already started last time.”

“Aces!” Peter said, smiling so broadly it made his eyes crinkle, but only so that he could hide the sudden tears that sprang up.

xXxXxXxXxXx

It took Peter another week of Neal being in DC – for the migraines and shakes and anxiety to recur – for him to finally realize why it was happening. It took two seconds in Neal's presence when he came home the first weekend – the touch of his hand that wiped all of his pain and exhaustion away – to confirm it.

Peter was addicted to Neal.

This was no prejudice and ignorance wrapped up in an old wives’ tale, as Peter had originally thought; this was real. What was said – what was feared – about prolonged, repeated physical exposure to a person with an Empathia within him had turned out to be true. Being away from Neal was making Peter sick.

Knowing it somehow made him feel better about it – he could endure it for the time being, if it meant that Neal could be allowed to shine. If it gave Neal the opportunity to prove to everyone who didn’t know – everyone who had written him off because he was a conman, or an Empathia, or both – how smart and valuable he was to the FBI.

What he didn’t know almost killed him.

He didn’t mention what he suspected to Neal or Elizabeth; he didn’t want to worry them. Who was he, after all, to complain? Neal returned each Friday night for the weekend – Peter could endure a few symptoms until then, couldn’t he? If their situations were switched, there was a time he’d have admonished Neal to “cowboy up,” right? So what if he felt like weeping every day he woke up, so bereft was he to face a day without Neal in it. So what if the pain in his head was a near constant, living thing, only varying in degree and intensity of pain. 

So Peter reasoned he could cowboy up for five days out of the week. Hell, the headaches were almost bearable the first two days, so it was more like three when all was said and done. He swallowed his fear and he told himself it could work, until it didn’t any longer, and a chain of normal events nearly cost him everything. 

Friday morning, a call came from Neal; they’d caught a break in the case and he was heading up to Boston for the weekend with Kramer to pursue a lead. Peter sighed and wished him luck, more disappointed not to be seeing Neal than anything. He ignored the shaking in his hands as he hung up the phone. Later in the afternoon, a call came from El, who’d been in the Hamptons for a meeting – her client invited her to stay the weekend, and did he mind? She’d have a great chance to network with a laundry list of potential new clients, would he be terribly disappointed if she stayed? 

“Well, I’ll miss you, but you should stay – you’ll have fun.”

“Thanks for being understanding, hon. And now you and Neal will have the whole weekend ahead of you – that’ll be nice, right?”

He didn’t tell her Neal would not be coming home - he didn’t want her to miss out on a business opportunity because he was going to be alone. 

Since it was a Friday in the summer in New York, most of the office was deserted by 3:00, which meant that Peter leaving early was barely noticed. He was beginning to feel the now-familiar itch beneath his skin that heralded the more severe symptoms of his withdrawal, and he would just as soon be at home before the migraine hit. He was home and in sweats by 4:00, watching afternoon chat shows and holding his glass of iced tea to his temple when his phone chimed – a text from Neal. He still felt bad for missing out on the weekend, and he was clearly in need of a minor bitch session about Kramer, who could be even more of a stickler for procedure than Peter was. Peter smiled thinly as he texted back and pretended that just this bit of contact with Neal made him feel better.

He ordered Chinese and called it an early night, chatting briefly with his wife before finally falling asleep at 9:00 with the telltale tightness beginning along the back of his skull. The throbbing of the migraine woke him around 4:00 am, and he barely made it to the bathroom to vomit up whatever remained in his stomach. It made him feel momentarily better, so he padded down the stairs to make some coffee. He had some of the migraine meds he’d asked the doctor for on his last visit on hand and popped two of them, hoping that those and the caffeine would get him through the day.

He took it easy on himself all day, kept the curtains drawn and caught up on all the episodes of Mythbusters he had on TiVo, and even took Satchmo out for a walk around sunset. Throughout the day, he heard from both his wife and his lover several times, and nearly forgot about his symptoms. 

When Peter woke Sunday morning, however, he could barely move. His limbs felt leaden and his head felt like it had swollen to twice its normal size. It took all his energy and concentration to make it to the bathroom to empty his bladder, and the journey back to the bed was a lesson in stamina. He would never be so grateful he’d let Elizabeth talk him into getting a doggy door for Satchmo. He’d thankfully left the migraine meds beside the bed the night before so he took them; when they hadn’t taken the edge off in an hour, he took some more. At one point, he fell back to sleep, and when he woke again, the shadows in the room had lengthened. He glanced at the bedside clock and it read 6:15 – he’d slept the entire day.

He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, contemplating the need to get back to the bathroom. But he felt so weak, he didn’t think he could get out of bed, let alone make it across the room and down the hall. He thought belatedly of his cell phone, and realized he’d left it charging on the kitchen counter. A wet snuffling under his elbow made him turn his head – Satchmo had sensed he had awakened, and wanted attention. Peter held out a shaking hand and the dog stuck his head under it. Peter rubbed the dog’s ears weakly, but then he lost his energy and his hand just fell away. Satchmo nosed at his hand again, but Peter couldn’t summon the will to move.

Peter tried not to panic. This sensation was strange, like paralysis, but not; he was conscious but his awareness felt odd, somehow: borrowed, like he was observing himself. His muscles felt too heavy; moving felt like struggling through sand or something thick, like molasses. It was not unlike a dream he used to have when he was a teenager, one where he was lying prone on the floor and no one noticed him. He could never move in those dreams, couldn’t speak, even though he was conscious – friends and family would just ignore him, step over him as they went about their business. 

A loud noise downstairs startled him and he realized he’d fallen asleep again. “I’m home!” Elizabeth called cheerfully, and he could hear her heels walk down the hallway toward the kitchen.

“Thank God,” Peter said, his voice sounding like a moan. Satchmo whined at him at his shoulder. “Satch,” he said softly. “Go get Mama.”

Satchmo marched on his front paws and then snuffled at Peter’s hand again; he clearly didn’t want to leave Peter alone, even with El home. Peter’d be touched at the loyalty of Man’s Best Friend if he didn’t want him to go bounding from the room in search of treats or walkies like he always did. “Go get Mama, buddy – go on!”

Satchmo made a gruff little woof and then trotted out of the room. 

“Peter?” El said as she entered the room, Satchmo preceding her to the bed. She came to his side and sat on the edge of the bed. “Honey, what is it?”

“El,” he began, but his speech was suddenly sluggish, hard to get out. He wondered if he was having a stroke. “Help me.”

“Peter?!” she repeated, her voice taking on a sharp note of fear. She ran her hands over him, felt his pulse, his forehead. “Tell me what’s wrong? How long have you been like this?”

“Since this morning,” he said slowly around a growing breathlessness; it felt like his lungs had forgotten how to breathe.

“Honey, I don’t like this, I’m calling 911.”

He tried to nod, agreeing. He suddenly felt foolish for trying to deal with this alone. But before Elizabeth could pick up the phone, he managed with difficulty to grab her wrist with his left hand. “Call Neal first,” he said urgently, “I need Neal to fix it.”

Nodding, El hit the speed dial.

\----

 

Neal found himself feeling grateful for the wall-mounted clock on the far side of the diner, because then it meant he could glance at the time and not appear to be rude to Agent Kramer if he kept checking his phone.

The lead in Boston had been promising, but not the breakthrough they’d hoped for in the case. Follow-up questioning of the witnesses would be handled by the local field office, and they were driving back to DC. They’d stopped at a diner in Paramus, NJ for dinner, just off the Garden State Parkway, and being this close to New York was almost physically painful, and certainly frustrating. When Neal thought of the time he’d lost at home with Peter and El and Moz, just to follow up on what he had argued from the start was not as important as others thought, he felt a bitter tang at the back of his throat. 

And neither of the texts he’d sent to Peter since morning had been returned. This was not worrying in and of itself, but it hadn’t improved his mood. 

He was contemplating the merits of getting a black and white cookie to go when his phone buzzed in his pocket, indicating he was receiving an incoming call. He jumped slightly, more for effect than for anything, and pulled the device out. _Elizabeth Cell_ , the display said, and he waved it at Kramer with an apologetic look on his face. “Sorry – have to take this.”

He eased out of their booth and to the front entrance, answering the phone on the way out. “El, thank God it’s you – you’re saving me from the most scintillating conversation about investigative procedure _ever_!”

“Neal,” El said, her voice low, urgent, serious. “I need you to come home right away.”

Neal felt the blood drain out of his face. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Peter, he’s sick.”

There was more behind those four words, Neal felt it in his bones; if Peter just had the flu again, she wouldn’t be calling him like this. “How sick?”

“He needs… you, Neal,” she said desperately, “he needs a healer.”

Neal ran back into the diner.

\----

“What happened? I mean, I just spoke with him _last night_ , El.” 

When Neal had told Kramer of Peter’s condition, the elder agent hadn’t hesitated in driving Neal directly to the hospital in Brooklyn. Peter had been admitted to the ICU, in severe respiratory distress. He lay in a bed in a cubicle just visible to them both, where a nurse was monitoring his vitals. Initial examinations hadn’t revealed a cause for his condition, and tests would have to be run.

But Neal thought he knew what the problem was. 

“I came home from a weekend in the Hamptons and I found him in bed,” Elizabeth was saying. “He just kept getting worse and worse, so I finally called 911. He begged me to call you too. I thought you were going to be home this weekend?”

Neal shrugged. “We got a lead in the case. You weren’t home either?”

“I had a business opportunity. Peter said nothing to me about you not coming - I’m willing to bet he said nothing to you, huh?” Neal shook his head. “Thank God you were so close.” 

Her hands were trembling and Neal instinctively went to take them, to comfort her, but the reality of what was happening with Peter made him pause. He held his hands to his sides, fists clenched. Elizabeth noticed and seemed to fold in upon herself, become smaller somehow. “I’m sorry,” he said miserably.

“What have you got to be sorry about?” 

“So many things.” Neal glanced around them; hospital staff was milling about, doing their jobs, but he didn’t want any of them overhearing. Starting a relationship with an Empathia was still somewhat of a taboo, and it was none of their business. Neal moved off to an unoccupied space and drew the curtain.

“Neal?”

“El,” he began at length, “you know what I am.”

“Of course – you’ve saved Peter’s life enough for me not to understand about your gift.”

Neal flinched – he had never considered the Empathia to be a gift, no matter what his Grandmother had said when he was small. “Then you also know what they say about prolonged exposure to an Empathia.” 

“That’s just ignorance and prejudice,” she said, but then her eyes narrowed. “Isn’t it?”

“I always thought so.”

“But you don’t know?”

He was suddenly ashamed to be standing before her, admitting the depth of what he did not know. “I do not.” When she did not answer, he felt compelled to fill the silence. “Elizabeth, you must believe that if I’d known this would happen, I would never have allowed this relationship. I love Peter too much to hurt him in any way.” He was begging her to understand, but her face seemed so shuttered, her shoulders set, and he thought suddenly that she must hate him.

“You think I hate you, don’t you?” and for once he saw the scary-intuitive streak in her that both fascinated and scared Peter at times. “I don’t. I don’t resent or begrudge you the relationship you have with my husband, I wish you’d believe that. It was me that encouraged this, and it’s me who’s to blame, maybe.”

“Elizabeth –“

“What’s done is done. As crazy as it is, and as many adjustments as we have all had to make while we figure out how this goes, we wouldn’t have this any other way. Peter loves you, and I love you too, in a way. Do you believe that?”

“I believe you,” he said honestly. “And I believe I don’t deserve either of you.”

She took a step forward and covered his hand with hers. “That’s your primary flaw, Neal. But I’m not the one who’s going to help you get over it. Now, please tell me you can heal Peter, because he needs you.”

Neal nodded, once, then glanced through the gap in the curtain at the slice of sky that was visible beyond the nurse’s station. The sun had dipped below the line of buildings that were visible, and he would not be able to draw on its power to heal Peter this evening. It didn’t matter – he’d persuaded Kramer to drive with his sun roof open for much of the afternoon, and he could feel the power thrumming deep inside him. He leaned over and planted a light kiss on Elizabeth’s cheek, then whispered into her ear, “I love you too,” and went to Peter’s side.

\----

It took one brief conversation with Peter’s doctor for Neal to be allowed to see him. Neal walked across the ward, studiously ignoring the stares that followed him – real and imagined – of the family members of other patients. He did not want to think of their suffering loved ones, the ones who couldn’t afford or did not merit the ministrations of an Empathia. It was not his place to choose; he would not take money for it either.

One look at Peter put all such thoughts from his mind, however. He had been hooked up to a respirator, the machine doing his breathing for him, and there were leads across his forehead as well as the ones on his chest. “What – what’s wrong with him?” Neal asked the doctor.

“He’s in a coma, but we can find no cause for it,” the doctor answered. 

“How long?”

“Since shortly after he was admitted.”

Neal lay a hand on Peter’s forehead. “He’s in pain.”

The doctor’s eyebrows furrowed. “We have him on morphine, but we can increase it…” he turned to find a nurse. 

“That won’t be necessary.” Neal went to Peter and pulled the blanket away, then bent over to loosen the ties on the hospital gown he wore. He pulled the thing down – he’d need skin-on-skin contact for this. “May we have some privacy?” he said to the doctor softly, who nodded and pulled the privacy curtain closed around them all. Neal spared a glance and a small smile for Elizabeth, laid his right hand on Peter’s forehead and his left on his breastbone, and began.

He could feel the familiar pull from deep within his chest as his Empathia was called, the surge that felt like an adrenaline rush only better. He imagined the energy as a light that flowed out along his arms and through his hands; even though the manifestation of his gift was not visible, it helped if he visualized it in this manner. He could feel it, flowing out of him, but he was surprised that he could not feel the corresponding result as he typically did. Normally, there was the sensation of a response – of the person mending, becoming whole. But this time, there was nothing. 

“Anything? Any change?” he asked the doctor.

The man checked the monitors and shook his head. “None.”

Neal was confused – this had never happened before. He tried again, and again there was no change.

“Neal?” Elizabeth said, and he could hear the concern in her voice. 

“I – I can do this, I can,” Neal muttered. He closed his eyes, hunched his shoulders, and instead of letting it be drawn from him, he decided to literally push it outward. The extra effort made him feel a sudden surge, as the energies banked within him were sent out twofold, then three. Soon, he realized he had no real control over it, and not only was the energy flowing from him, it was pulling him with it.

“Neal!” Elizabeth said – maybe shouted – he couldn’t be sure. When he opened his eyes, he realized the room was bathed in a blindingly white light. In the second before he passed out, he realized it was coming from him.

xXxXxXxXxXx

When Neal comes to himself, he is sitting at his desk at the White Collar division offices, his head pillowed on his hands. He sits bolt upright and glances around – he is alone. He notices the light outside the windows is way too bright – he can’t see past it to the neighboring buildings. _Ah ha,_ he thinks, _this isn’t real._

He slowly realizes there is a buzzing in his head and a queasy feeling in his stomach. He gets up, and feels just a bit dizzy, but he ignores it. He explores the floor he is on, the offices stretching on and on – many more than at the real Federal building. “Hello?” he calls out, but there is no answer. There is a murmuring behind him and he turns, but he is still alone. 

_Where is he?_

“Peter?” he calls. It’s a valid assumption – he’s at the office, after all. Where else would the manifestation of Peter’s subconscious place him? He thinks. 

He walks on – all the offices’ doors are open, but there is no one in them. He arrives at the end of the corridor at last, rounds it and spots the interrogation room, its glass walls gleaming, glowing from within. Peter sits at the table inside, waiting.

“I was hoping I’d find you here,” he says when he enters, smiling.

 _Have you?_

He hears Peter’s voice, but his lips do not move. Suddenly and with perfect clarity, Neal realizes this is not Peter. It is his Empathia.

“You.” 

_Yes._

“What are you doing inside Peter’s consciousness?”

 _Who said we’re inside_ Peter’s _consciousness?_

“You mean…”

The Empathia nods. _Weird, huh? Who’d have thought you’d be so invested in_ this _place?_

Neal shakes his head as the buzzing inside it gets louder, persistent, almost painful. He has to sit down. He laughs in spite of it.

_What’s so funny?_

“The thing I hate the most takes the form of the person I love the most. The irony isn’t lost on me.”

_I didn’t choose this form, you did. There’s irony for you. No wait, not irony: fucking pathetic._

“There’s no need to be rude. What is this place – why am I here?”

_You know the answers to both questions._

“Do I?” 

Empathia nods. 

“I thought I was healing Peter, bringing him out of the coma he is in. The one I caused. I assumed this was his consciousness, and I was somehow able to gain access to it through -”

_Through what?_

“Well, you.”

_Ah. You’re not wrong. This place is the space between – you are in both places and neither. Your consciousness and Peter's._

“Why are you here?”

_I wanted to speak to you. Clue you in on a few things, since you are resolutely against learning them for yourself._

“I get by well enough.”

 _Oh, do you?_

Empathia’s voice drips with sarcasm, and with Peter’s face on it, Neal feels the words twist in his gut. It hurts, literally. 

“Christ,” he mutters, bending forward a bit, to try to ease it.

_Hurts, huh?_

“What is that?”

_Peter’s pain. The pain he endures when he’s separated from you._

“Oh my God, is it always this bad?”

Empathia shakes his head. _No, it’s usually much worse. Think. Feel._

Neal blinks, taking a mental inventory. He is suddenly assailed by a wall of emotions so powerful – want, need, desire, desperation – all sweeping over him in wave after wave, inexorable. He gasps, pushing his chair away from the table.

_He feels that too. He feels it now._

“Jesus!”

Empathia just looks at him. 

“What am I supposed to do with this? Ahh, GOD!” Neal falls to the floor, overwhelmed by the emotions, their weight. 

_That is the result of your hubris, Neal. That is what happens when you deny who you are,_ Empathia says. Neal thinks he ought to be gloating, but he sounds sad. _There are ways, did you know? Ways to be with someone who is Without and not make them addicted, ways to inure them – meditation, teas, conditioning. If you’d trained, you’d know that._

“I didn’t know, I didn’t,” Neal moans.

_Because you’ve denied what you are, because you rejected it. You think you know what’s best, what’s right._

“I’m sorry!”

_You know nothing._

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry. Peter!” Neal weeps now, prostrate on the floor, his heart broken. He has caused this, he alone. He has killed Peter, only he. His guts twist again and he howls. The emotions press down on his head and he trembles. A vision of Peter swims before his eyes, the love of his life, or so he thought, and he can take no more. “STOP!” he shouts, and as if a switch had been thrown, all his pain suddenly ceases.

He lies on the floor, panting. “What?” Neal gasps. 

_You stopped it. You could always stop it._

“I can stop it for Peter?”

_Of course, but you may not want to pay the price._

“Anything. Please tell me how.” Neal begs.

_You can sever the tie, break the bond between you, and heal him. He will never again be dependent on you. But you can never see him again._

“What?”

 _If you see him again, it will be worse. If you see him again, he_ will _die, eventually._

“That’s the choice I have? All or nothing?”

_Pain or happiness. Life or death. You have that power, such is the nature of Empathia. You know it, you’ve always known._

“I’ve always known,” Neal agrees. He gets up on his knees. “Tell me what I have to do.”

\----

Empathia leads Neal down the hallway to the Bullpen. Up the stairs, towards Peter’s office. They stand in the doorway and inside – inside it is Peter’s hospital room. He lies silent, nearly motionless, sleeping. There are none of the machines and tubes sticking out of him. He is naked under the sheet.

 _There he is,_ Empathia says. _Do as I said and he will be whole again. If you do not, he will be forever bound to you. Willing or no, he will always need you._

Neal shudders. _Willing or no._ Was Peter his willingly? Or had repeated exposure to Neal made him that way? Did Peter need him because he loved him, or because he was inextricably bound to him, a slave to the addiction, his addiction to Neal? Where did need stop and love start? Was there a distinction? Neal doesn’t know, but he doesn’t want it if the price of it is Peter’s free will. 

He walks to the bed and reaches his hand out, to place it on Peter’s head. Peter opens his eyes and smiles up at him. Neal can feel the emotions pouring off of him, they assail his entire body. But he knows this is Peter he's seeing, talking to. This is no construct of his subconscious.

“Neal,” Peter says, his voice calm, happy. “You’re here.”

“I am.”

“Where is here?”

“It’s rather complicated to explain.”

Peter nods, accepting it. 

“You should have told me what was happening,” Neal says.

“I’m sorry. I thought I could handle it.”

“I thought it couldn’t happen. Shows what I know.”

“It’s OK.”

“It isn’t.”

“No, it really is. I knew what I was getting into, Neal.”

“Did you? Did you really?”

Peter nods. “In a way, yes. This thing between us, it’s not exactly mainstream, you get that, right? You being an Empathia just makes it that much more challenging.”

“That’s the understatement of the century.”

“Maybe so, but it doesn’t change how I feel.”

“How do you feel?” Neal feels tears pricking at his eyes. 

“I love you.”

Neal closes his eyes. “Do you?”

“Always have, I think.”

“Always?”

Peter nods. “Maybe since we met. Definitely since I caught you that second time. Maybe I didn’t know it most of the time, but no one’s perfect.”

Neal opens his eyes. “Thanks for that,” he says and holds out his hands. More tears fall.

“What are you doing?”

“Healing you.”

Peter sighs as Neal lays hands on him again, head and heart.

xXxXxXxXxXx

“Neal!” Elizabeth said, shouted, called, whatever. She shook him too, for good measure.

Neal opened his eyes and blinked. He was still standing beside Peter’s bed, his hands on his lover’s head and chest, but he had sunk nearly to his knees, his elbows against the bed rail holding him up. “What?” he said, disoriented. He looked around; El and the doctor were standing where they had been before – no more than a few seconds must have elapsed. 

Neal stood and ran a hand over his face, then looked at the doctor. “Did that help? How is Peter now?”

The doctor stepped forward and checked the readout of the machines. He next pulled up each of Peter’s eyelids and grunted. “It worked. The EEG looks normal; I think he’s just sleeping.”

Neal sighed with relief and El threw her arms around his neck, kissing him on the cheek. “Thank you,” she breathed into his ear. “Thank you!”

Neal just looked at Peter sadly and then closed his eyes.

\----

“Hey,” Neal called to Peter from the door to his hospital room.

Peter’s face broke into a huge grin. “Hey,” he greeted, poking at the green Jell-o on his lunch tray. “I hate this stuff, but I’m starving. You want some?” After coming out of the coma, he’d been transferred to a private room the evening before. 

“Nah,” Neal said, staying where he was. “El go out?”

“She’s gone home to pack some stuff for me. They’re letting me out tomorrow morning.”

“That’s great. A huge relief.”

“And it was all thanks to you,” Peter said happily, but the look of pain on Neal's face made him rethink them. “I mean, you know, I’m better because of you not because – I mean, I don’t –“ 

“No, I get it. It’s OK.”

“Kramer let you off the case?”

“I don’t know what my status there is right now. I’ve been ignoring his texts and emails.”

“Ah well, you should stop doing that. It’s still an important case.”

“Mmm-hmm. Yeah. And how long are we going to ignore the gorilla in the room?”

“I don’t know what you mean?”

“You could have died because of me. Because of our being together.”

Peter cocked his head to the side thoughtfully. “Come here.”

Neal shook his head.

Peter held out his hand, beckoning. “I heard everything, you know that? Please come here.”

“Wh-what?” Neal stammered, still holding back.

Peter’s voice became gentle. “I know what you did. I know why you did it.”

“Peter, I can’t, I –“

“Don’t make me come over there,” Peter threatened and Neal finally went to him. Peter held his hand out to him, but Neal was reluctant to take it. Peter merely shook his head fondly. 

“You want to tell me what you meant just now?” Neal asked.

“That place we were in – it was a kind of limbo, wasn’t it?”

“A construct between both our consciousnesses, yes.” 

“So, part you, and part me?”

Neal nodded.

“I was aware of it.”

Neal looked at him, surprised. 

“It wasn’t like I overheard, but I _felt_ it, if that makes sense.” He began to play with a loose thread on the hospital blanket. “Would you really have severed our bond? Would you have left me?”

Neal flinched at the pain in his voice. “Yes,” he said simply.

“Why?”

“I was afraid the only reason you loved me was because you had to, because of a physical addiction. I couldn’t live like that, knowing I’d done that to you, knowing that one day you’d come to resent it, resent me. Or worse, I’d resent you. Either way, I couldn't go through with it, you know that.” 

“What made you change your mind?”

“You did. You said you’d loved me a long time, even before I embraced my gift. More importantly, I felt it. I felt your true feelings, through the bond we shared in that place. And may God damn me to hell, I couldn’t walk away from it. I should have, but I was too weak.”

“I would disagree.” This time when Peter reached out, Neal let him take his hand. Peter pulled him closer, and kissed his palm. Neal curled his fingers around Peter’s face.

“I felt your pain, Peter. I felt everything you go through when I’m away. It was – awful, and sickening. To think I was responsible –“

“But you weren’t, not entirely. I went into this relationship with my eyes wide open, Neal. We both knew there were risks, come on, we can finally admit it to ourselves. Old wives’ tales usually have a kernel of truth to them. Don’t you think I considered what being with you might cost me? And do you know what? I decided it was worth it – you were worth it. I love you and I want to be with you. Forever.”

“It’s too much. I can’t ask you to do it.”

“I do it willingly. And besides, we know we have an out now, don’t we? If anything happens, if we fall out of love or either one of us can’t do this anymore, we know you can break the bond. It doesn’t seem so much like a death sentence now, does it?”

“I suppose not,” Neal said, but he was still unconvinced. They’d have to talk it through some more – later, when they were both feeling better. “One thing I do know, and that’s that I know nothing,” Neal continued.

“I’m going to have to ask you to diagram that sentence.”

Neal laughed. “It’s become clear that I know very little about my gift, about controlling it and using it properly. It’s time I went in for some training, see how that goes.”

“I think that’s a good idea. You shouldn’t deny who you are, Neal. You’re so special, do you know that?”

“I, uh…” Neal could feel his face coloring. “I’m going to go get you some more Jell-O.”

“Is that a threat? I’m a sick guy here!”

“OK – pudding. Butterscotch OK?”

“See, we really do have a special bond – that’s my favorite flavor.”

“Don’t push it.”

\----

Thank you for your time.


End file.
